


Vanquished and Absent

by Erisandmira



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Harry Gaunt, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle Attend Hogwarts Together, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Obsessive Tom Riddle, Possessive Tom Riddle, Young Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2020-10-28 07:43:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20775005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erisandmira/pseuds/Erisandmira
Summary: Tom Riddle enters his third year of Hogwarts, preparing to endure more mocking and cruelties because of his blood status, but things take an unexpected turn when a new transfer student starts.





	1. Chapter 1

Some children feel very nervous about a starting a new school year if the year before was difficult. Most would at the very least feel some apprehension about returning to a place where they are disliked by their housemates.

Tom Riddle didn’t, because Tom Riddle was _better _than that.

In the platform dotted with clusters of waiting people, Tom's arrogant demeanor would give him way if anyone cared to look. That’s not to say he was the only one projecting an air of superiority – far from, the purebloods from the ancient families had practically perfected that art and would probably boast to have invented it too, but it was exactly that compression that made Tom stick out.

One look at the second-handed robes the young boy was wearing would immediately exposed that there were few similarities between the poor orphan and the wealthy, spoiled aristocrats.

When the harsh, metallic shriek heralded the arrival of the Hogwarts Express, donned in bold red, Tom felt pleased. One could say he was standing in defiance of his less _fortunate_ upbringing – with the proud tilt of his chin and refusal to act cowered. 

He had nothing to be nervous about, he was no longer stranger to the magical would, and he had already proved that he was an exceptionally wizard; out-performing everyone in everything. No matter what his housemates in Slytherin whispered – mocked, the truth of the matter was that he _belonged_. 

The doors to the train enthusiastically eased open with the force of ten horses, as if gripped by the desire to welcome him back, and Tom stepped in with bearing of a king entering his castle.

_I belong, I belong, _repeated in his head. Tom ignored how much it sounded like a comforting mantra the same way he ignored the sharp edges of his worn shoes through his thinning grey socks.

He was ready to start his third year in Hogwarts.

* * *

Over the remainder of the last weeks of second year and summer, Tom had regained the motoric of his left hand. It had been very upsetting to carry on with the practice exams while he still felt residual pain after the curse, but at least the matron had regrown his hair quickly. Looking like a fool would have been insurable.

They never caught who did it, his housemates swore up and down that they hadn’t seen anything, even though the attack happened in the common room.

Despite spending most of his horrid summer holidays nursing his grudges, Tom never considered the option of not return to Hogwarts. Cruelty was after all, something Tom was born and molded in, his housemates’ harsh treatment was nothing Tom hadn’t experienced before.

Truthfully, he was mostly frustrated that he couldn’t retaliate enough.

* * *

_“You might belong in Gryffindor,_

_Where dwell the brave at heart,_

_Their daring, nerve and chivalry_

_Set Gryffindors apart;_

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

_Where they are just and loyal,_

_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_

_And unafraid of toil;_

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_

_If you’ve a ready mind,_

_Where those of wit and learning,_

_Will always find their kind;_

_Or perhaps in Slytherin_

_You’ll make your real friends,_

_Those cunning folk use any means_

_To achieve their ends.”_

Usually, most cared little for the sorting ceremony, impatiently waiting for the feast to start. Sure, there are always a relative or acquaintance that one might have some interested in knowing where some first years ended up, but no one pays attention to the whole thing. To the first years it the most exciting moment in their life, granted even Tom had felt it was very pivotal when he was the one waiting to be sorted, but to the rest its plain boring.

Usually that was the case, but something was clearly different this year. There was a palpable anticipation in the air, and people were whispering excited to each other, shooting glance at group of first years waiting to be sorted.

At first, Tom was absolutely baffled as to why, and few thing angered him more than ignorance. Which was why he furiously directed his attention at the same place, glaring at the small first years, no doubt intimidating those who were unfortunate enough to meet his gaze.

When his careful scrutiny failed to yield results, he shifted his attention to the two chatting sixth-year girls that sat across him, straining his ears to catch their hushed conversation.

“I can’t see him anywhere,” one of them heaved a deep, weary sigh and rested her chin in her hands, “Are you certain he is really starting here?”

“Of course! I heard it from Malfoy,” the other said a little offended.

“Why would Malfoy talk to you?” The first asked a little bewildered, which was fair since both was rather low in the hierarchy of Slytherin, hence why they sat in the far end of the table, right across a mudblood like Tom Riddle.

Nonetheless, Tom really wasn’t interested in hearing about Malfoy lack of interest, and really wished they would continue to the subject of this mysterious _him_. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long before they divulged something interesting.

“I didn’t even know one could transfer from Durmstrang, or any other school, really. “

A Durmstrang transfer student? That was interesting. Tom had of course read much about other magical institutes in Europe and had found Durmstrang particularly fascinating. It was known to put a lot of emphasis on teaching the Dark Arts and not admit Muggle-borns, as some of his dull housemates pointed out.

The school was rumored to be in the far north of the continent and accepted many international students, but he had never heard about students transferring from there. It was not normal if the reaction of the Hogwarts students were any indication. Nor was the student arriving according to some people further down the table.

“Dueling Champion, youngest one to have earn that tittle!”

“I heard he associated with the trouble in Germany.”

“Do you think he was expelled from Durmstrang?”

It was almost impressive how the students kept up an incessant stream of chatter and commentary during the whole sorting ceremony; in Tom’s mind, he was creating a list. Noting every piece of information and storing it for later use. In this stage, his interested was impersonal, mostly there because he hated the fact that those around him possessed knowledge he didn’t.

Slowly, the chatter died down, but the questioning looks only increased as the first years thinned out. Disappointment teased the air before Deputy Headmaster Dumbledore cleared his throat, capturing everyone’s attention. 

_One day I’ll command the same respect_, Tom inwardly sneered, annoyed at himself for implying he’ll strive to be anything like Dumbledore. It was petty of him to think that way, but so be it.

“I see the Hogwarts gossip mill work as swiftly as always,” Dumbledore said, his glasses twinkling “I do hope you all know better than to trouble our new sixth year student too much.”

Oh. Not in his year then.

A flicker of annoyance crossed Tom’s face, a shadow camouflaging the hot disappointment Tom felt at the realization that the he would probably not interact much with the newest addition to the school. A shame, he would have loved to hear more about other magical schools from someone who attended them.

There was bored indifferent painted his face as he (in)patiently waited for the whole thing to finish. Dumbledore, rather predictably, dragged out the introduction way longer than necessary. Probably for the sole purpose of being infuriating. Not much of what he said was informative, mostly vague nonsenses about trying times and new beginnings. It felt like an eternity before a lanky teen, with a mop of dark, unruly hair on his head stood up from the Gryffindor table and walked towards Dumbledore and the sorting hat.

Rather belatedly, Dumbledore announced him, “Gaunt, Hadrian.”

The teen walked with confident strides, oozing strength and power. There was something amusing about the audacity he had when he mockingly bowed to the gawking hall of students. It was also terribly Gryffindor-ish, so Tom was more than ready to dismiss him.

The air was heavy with the tense excitement and suspense, as everyone seemed to be bating their breath while waiting for verdict. Gaunt sat calmly on the high stool, taking his sweet time.

Just as Tom was about to glance way, Hadrian Gaunt’s eyes shifted to him. Tom felt the heat rise to his cheeks. Gaunt’s eyes, vibrant green deep enough to hold a universe, held Tom captive. Intensely, as if he was staring straight down into Tom soul, Gaunt examined him in a fleeting moment that seemed to last for ages

“SLYTHERIN!”

Relief was Tom’s first emotion felt when Gaunt broke the eye contact, but it was soon poisoned by a creeping, twisting feeling of being rejected. Like he had failed some test. The bitterness increased when Gaunt was welcomed by the sixth year Slytherins with open arms, and Tom was discarded to the side.

Furious and confused, Tom stabbed his food with more force than necessary, and stubbornly refused to even look at Hadrian Gaunt direction, thus missing how the older boy’s eyes kept flickering towards him.


	2. Chapter 2

Hadrian Gaunt had insinuated himself so skillfully into the top hierarchy of Slytherin that one could almost be fooled into thinking he’d always been part of it. The new student could be spotted laughing, jesting and mingling with them regularly; a sight that never failed to irritate Tom.

There was something deeply _offensive_ about the green-eyed teen befriending the same people that rejected and taunted Tom. Although the upper classmates usually ignored Tom, deeming him not worthy of their time, that particular group of sixth years had targeted him on multiple occasions. Mainly because Tom had proved too difficult to subjugate for Theon Avery, one of Tom’s bothersome roommates, and his older brother had taken the responsibility to teach the mudblood his place.

Tom loathed them, found them repulsive and foolish, and he hated the fact that they intervened on Theon behalf. The memory of his roommates horrified screams after he – a supposed muggle-born, managed to inflict a blood-boiling curse on them would forever be tainted by the knowledge that it was family-ties that saved them from Tom’s wrath. Much like how Gaunt was becoming tainted by association in Tom’s eyes.

Not that Gaunt cared about Tom’s opinion, no, the older boy didn’t seem to know Tom existed, paying more attention to pebbles on his path than he ever did to Tom. The indifference started up the moment they broke eye-contact in the sorting ceremony and Tom had endured about two months of it now.

To Tom’s dismay (and confusion), the lack of acknowledgement made him unable to focus on anything else other than obtaining it. So, Tom simply decided he would achieve this regardless of the cost; to Gaunt that is.

The was no way he would allow this interest to be one-sided, not when it was Gaunt that had first gazed at Tom like he was the center of the universe. No one was allowed to toy with Tom like that.

(The taste of Gaunt’s attention had been too sweet for Tom to pretend nothing happened.)

* * *

The day of reckoning finally arrived, Tom had spent weeks preparing to ensnare Gaunt and make him regret dismissing Tom. It was no coincident that he choose to commence his plans on Samhain, the day the veil between this world and the afterlife is at its thinnest point of. Thus, making it a popular day to communicate with those who have left this world.

Even though the ancient holiday of Samhain had been replaced with Halloween in Hogwarts, mainly due to muggleborn outcry, most purebloods still spent the day with the appropriate solemnity to pay respects to the departed. Therefore, people would simply assume Gaunt was taking a quiet moment for himself if he was to be absent for most of the day. It was the perfect moment to isolate him.

Dark anticipation hissed in Tom’s veins, all hints of the simmering anger forgotten – for nothing was more satisfying than retribution.

Surprisingly, his good mood wasn’t dampened the least by the scathing looks for his housemates. The Halloween decortications never failed to provoke them and it would be uncharacteristic for them to hide their distaste.

Slytherins weren’t the only ones that scorned Halloween, but they were definitively the loudest. Tom didn’t appreciate Wizard culture being spurn in favor of muggles either, but he had the sense not to openly discuss it in the breakfast table. Frankly, there was no surprise no one could breach the subject of Samhain without being accused of anti-muggle-born sentiments when these idiots throw around words like ‘mudblood´ and ‘dirty’ whenever the subject was brought up. It didn’t take long before the conversation went back to the frequently topic of ‘preserving the purity of bloodlines within the magical population’, painting an even more damming picture.

Tom ate his breakfast in silence, enjoying the cream chess and its delicious blend of versatility in taste and texture. While he had regained most of his weight after being away from the orphanage in two months, the joy of eating something that did not taste like bland mash still lingered.

“How are the Samhain celebrations in Durmstrang?“ Said a smooth voice full of curiosity.

Unwillingly, Tom’s eyes flickered up, greedily drinking in the sight of his prey casually walking with Abraxas Malfoy. Despite the early hour, Hadrian Gaunt’s green eyes sparkled with humor and the dimple appeared under one eye, making him look impossibly handso- idiotic, yes, idiotic. 

“Supposedly, we preform rituals that invited spirits of the dead to attend our festivities, “ Gaunt ran a hand through his hair, fingers tangling in the messy, raven black curls that intertwining into beautiful chaos that stood in contrast to slicked-back and smooth style Malfoy favored. The smile he wore was conspiratorial, and his voice was full of mirth, “but necromancy isn’t part of the curriculum, so the result is hardly impressive.”

Tom wondered if Malfoy was aware how plain and washed-out he looked next to the bright eyed ex-Durmstrang student.

“That certainty sound better than ridiculously affair we are forced to suffer through here in Hogwarts, “ Avery sneered as they passed Tom.

Owain nodded eagerly in agreement, viciously adding, “To think we have to appease those who are less than us.”

Owain was a half-blood with a muggle mother, a fact he tried to make everyone forget. It might seem absurd, but it was a known phenomenon that those with most doubtful blood-status in Slytherin were the most vocal bigots. They try their hardest to keep in step with the prejudices because any slip off the edge of anti-muggleness would get them ostracized or worse.

Tom strained his ears to hear the rest of their conversation as they moved further away, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes when Malfoy ‘cleverly’ made insinuations and allusions to the muggle massacres Grindelwald was preforming.

“That’s enough.” Gaunt spoke the words softly, but his voice carried over the space and silenced it, causing numerous slytherins to shot glances at the group of sixth years.

Obviously, Tom took the opportunity to stole another glance at Gaunt, who appeared to be disinterested and bored, as if he found Malfoy’s attempts at wittiness as unimpressive as Tom did.

The thought sent Tom’s heart skittering with unfamiliar thrill, and something possessive came to life within him, making his eyes flare brightly. The feeling became more potent when he took in Malfoy’s deferent expression. 

How Malfoy still failed notice the steady decline of his powers and Gaunt’s increasing dominance was beyond Tom’s comprehension. At least it was convenient; gaining Gaunt’s favor would be easier than the foolish Malfoy who was incapable of recognizing talents because of his own mediocracy.

Gaunt, on the other hand, was proving to be quite the prize. A sinister smile painted Tom’s lips.

Soon.

* * *

The grounds of Hogwarts function not only as a nature reserve for magical creatures which have difficulty existing in Muggle-inhabited areas, but also the home for a vast variety of venomousness snakes.

Finding one to do Tom bidding hadn’t been a challenge, but preparing an antidote had been time-consuming, hence the two months waiting time. The plan was very simple, the spiny-headed seasnake would sneak through the grass and bite Gaunt.

Its venom paralysis and condemned its victim to death due to respiratory failure, and the thought of witnessing such an event made Tom’s hands twitch in anticipation.

Many night prior to this had been spent imagining Gaunt’s face twisted in agony. To have him looked up at Tom, broken, eyes reddened and wavering in desperation, lips parted slightly –

Tom found it exquisite torture to have to wait, to sate his hunger with only fantasies, but somehow, he managed until now. The time spent preparing allowed him to map out Gaunt’s schedule and habits. Predictably, Gaunt left his sycophants to enjoy solitude at the sloping lawns nearby the forbidden forest.

Gaunt was resting under the shade of an oak tree, looking deliciously unaware.

Tom’s eyes were completely fixated on him, watching, waiting – almost giddy with excitement. The seconds ticked by slowly before he finally saw Gaunt finch out in pain and collapse. Tom allowed a few more moments to past before he moved in. He had already set a privacy ward that far surpassed anything someone his age could conjure (in fact, it was doubtful any of his peers could cast one at all).

It would be suspicious and plain stupid to bring Gaunt to the school matron just to reveal he had an antidote. So, instead he would inject some of it to Gaunt now, while he was out and no witnesses were around, haul him back to the school and play the role of concerned student.

Gaunt would owe him a life debt, or at least believe he do, and purebloods took life-debts serious. Once Tom has his attention and goodwill, his natural brilliance and merits would win Gaunt over.

Simple.

Not able to restrain himself, Tom took a moment to studied Gaunt as he laid collapsed on the grass. The dark locks were matted and splayed about grass Gaunt had sunk into and he was curled to one side as if to protect himself and his lips were slightly parted. Tom bet Gaunt’s hair was as soft as silk, and was extremely tempted to run his fingers over to find out. Instead his hand hovered above Gaunt’s neck, because the urge to dig his nails into flesh and draw blood was equally strong.

To think this German dared to occupy his attention for so long. What gave him the right? It was deserving that he ended up unconscious and nearing death, after all the anger and uncertainty he caused Tom.

Time was of the essence, so Tom tore his gaze from Gaunt to pull out the antidote from his pocket and then –

A large, strong hand grabbed his right shoulder and slammed him to the ground. Before Tom could properly process what happened a wand was pressed against his neck. Green eyes glared down at him, furious and unforgiving.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Hadrian Gaunt hissed out, poking his wand painfully against Tom’s throat.

Tom almost missed the words under the loud pounding of his heart. Taking a moment to collect himself, Tom closed his eyes tightly and swallowed around the lump in his throat, when his eyes opened a perfect reply poured out of his mouth, “I-I was trying to check your pulse, you looked like you had collapsed!”

“Is that so?” Gaunt asked coldly, and yet something odd flickered across his features, informing Tom that his words had some effect.

“Of course,” Tom hissed back, adding an affronted undertone to his words. It was important he got away from this unfavorable position as fast as possible. He couldn’t act guilty, he had to play the offended party, “but I see my thoughtfulness is unnecessary, rest assure next time I’ll leave you for dead.”

Silence met his statement for longer than he was comfortable with. Gaunt’s expression was unreadable, and Tom was frustrated that he had no idea what the older boy was thinking. This had turned into a catastrophe, he would give that snake a throughout reprimand for failing him as soon as he get the chance – wait, if Gaunt hadn’t been bitten, why had he dropped to the ground?

Tom narrowed his eyes, watching him suspiciously.

“I can’t say I buy your story,” Gaunt said softly, in a manner that was more frightening than yelling would have been.

“Is that so?” Tom parroted, inwardly panicking and desperately trying not to show it.

Gaunt’s gaze was wary and almost hostile, but it also held a hint of wonder, as if Gaunt was struggling to come in terms with something. Surprisingly, Gaunt removed the wand from Tom’s neck and stood up, freeing Tom from his weight.

Hesitantly, Tom straightened up, watching Gaunt as one might watch a dangerous predator. He did not know what to think when Gaunt offered his hand, and grabbed it more out of surprise than any conscious decision. Gaunt gently pulled Tom to his feet, not letting go of his hand.

The older boy’s lips curled in a strange smile, devoid of joy, but brimming over with inner turmoil. Letting out a sigh, Gaunt tilted his head to the side, glancing at something on the ground. Tom followed his gaze and found the snake lazily stretched out in the grass.

Never had any of his serpents caused him such anger, Tom clenched his jaw and tried to make sense of what had happened.

“_The ground is warm today_,” it casually remarked as if it hadn’t epically failed Tom.

“_True, but I doubt the good weather will last,_ “ Gaunt hissed back.

How optimistic. Did Gaunt have other pieces of wisdom he wanted to share? Perhaps discuss the best places to catch mouse. Or maybe - 

Wait.

“You can talk to snakes?” Tom asked incredulously. Dumbledore had lead him to believe it was unusual talent, but in hindsight he should have doubted anything that came out of that old fool’s mouth.

Gaunt’s expression softened, and he almost looked as uncertain as Tom felt, his voice was half-hesitant, half-bewildered when he said, “Of course, being a parselmouth is Gaunt family trait. And we been conversing in it this whole conversation.”

Confusion, disbelief, doubt and a million-other feeling coursed through Tom, overflowing him with their intensity and making it impossible to think clear. This couldn’t be real. Surely, Gaunt wasn’t implying that - no, preposterous, ridiculous. That was something the other orphans wasted their time fantasizing, but something to would delude himself with.

Tom’s lips began to tremble from barely supressed laughter, despite mirth being the furthest from what he feeling. 

“Finding long-lost family feels rather odd, wouldn’t you agree?” Hadrian Gaunt commented more than asked.

Family.

Dark hair, delicate features and sharp eyes. Tom stared at Gaunt intently, noting every similarity between them. Never before had Tom gazed at another human and seen himself reflected back. Gaunt- Hadrian didn’t look identical to him, but there something utterly fascinating in the possibility that they shared kinship.

The blood in their veins might come from the same line. 

This person was someone that belonged to Tom. Someone that was his. A connection that was his birthright, something no one could serve.

Tom’s mouth felt impossible dry and no words came out.

His relative took pity and laid his hand gently on Tom’s head, the touch was light, but enough to bring Tom out of his stupor.

Later, he would curse how weak his voice sounded when he asked, “You are not joking..right?”

”No. I’m serious, deadly so, you might say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so they talk, lovely start on their relationship, right? Reviews fuel me and pushes me to write, so please let me know your thoughts! I love to hear what you guys think about the chapter :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Pure-Blood Directory**

**\- ** _A compendium of the truly pure-blood families_

_Author:_ Anonymous

_Released_: 1937

_Subject:_ The "Sacred Twenty-Eight"

The book was several hundred white pages, each gentle against Tom’s fingertips. Upon them rested the knowledge his origins; the testament of his ancestry, and Tom could not properly describe the feeling of elation that channeled through him when he held it. In that humble ink laid his innermost desires; the glimpses of belonging every orphan longed after – and Tom’s trepidation and yearning was palpable. It was also short lived.

Tom glanced at the older boy sitting next him; Hadrian Gaunt had been oddly quiet since they located the book – except the snort of derision when reading the book’s title. An odd reaction from a pureblood, but Gaunt engaged in a lot of contradicting behavior.

Currently, harsh displeasure stained his bright green eyes, compelling Tom to avert his gaze so he wouldn’t reveal how uneasy it made him.

Clenching the book, Tom smiled coldly, revealing sharpened teeth. He imagined wrapping Gaunt in iron and whip him until he was nothing more than a bloody mass. He imagined tearing his heart out and feasting on his agony. He imagined gore and pleading– he fantasized, he conjured up one horrendous image after another until his smile felt genuine.

Rejection had no place in this moment of truth.

Gaunt had been the one to proclaim them as family, the one that suggested they go to the library so that they could find a genealogy book. So, Gaunt was not _allowed _to have second thoughts. A door once opened could be stepped through in either direction, and Tom would stake his own claim regardless of the results the book would divulge. 

_“Finding long-lost family feels rather odd, wouldn’t you agree?”_

Odd, Tom should have understood that it meant _bad_.

(Freak)

“The Gaunt family, “ Tom read, the bitter taste of swallowed anger lingered his mouth, causing him to spit the words out, ”can traces its ancestry back to the early 1600.”

“Late 1300, actually. The Gaunt family are mentioned in multiple texts documenting the second International Warlock Convention,” Hadrian Gaunt interrupted softly, wearing a far-off look. Based how automatic that respond was, Tom could guess that the Gaunt family history was something the older boy was well versed in, perhaps because of a childhood schooling. 

_How enviable_, Tom inwardly scoffed before arching one eyebrow, “Shall I continue or do you have more to add?”

Gaunt looked startled for a split-second, as if he had forgotten Tom was there, and then his eyes flashed with…anger or maybe pain? Before Tom could decipher it fully, a colder, more composed expression took it place. Tom eyed him, confused and annoyed, and openly sneered when the older boy made a motion for Tom to continue.

Turning his attention back to the book – for Tom knew that he’ll have no luck reading Gaunt’s face, the next sentence proved to be very fascinating; “They were also the last known descendants of-“ Tom paused, wonder entering his voice, “_Salazar Slytherin_!”

Gaunt’s regarded Tom distantly, as if disconnected to the world around him, even his tone was bland when he said: “As well as descendants of the Peverells. A great source of pride, or so they say…The parseltongue ability comes from Slytherin_.”_

Tom’s face adapted a hungry look, devouring the pages of what might – no, _definitively _was his family history. Greatness, wealth and power; seductive words that his ears lent themselves too gladly. The text now had a vice-like grip on his mind, it's pleasing revelations began to taking root inside him, challenging the once mundane facts of his existence, transporting him into a new exciting realm where even his sense of self was restored.

He knew it, he had always known it – that he was _special_.

Even when the term ‘mudblood’ replaced ‘freak’, Tom had known. Greatness was his past, his presence and his future. No amount of belittling had been enough to penetrate that unshaking belief.

And yet….it was nice to have it confirmed. A pitiful, famished creature that lurked in dark corner of Tom’s mind craved to hear more. Like a starved dog licking food dropped on the floor, it didn’t even mind that the nourishment was contaminated reluctance, it just wanted kinship so desperately.

“Tell me,” Tom demanded, for he wanted to hear the words spoken by another’s mouth. To have the sound fill the room, and from there it could radiating its way into the empty space in his heart, with warmth and acknowledgement.

Hadrian obliged, telling tales of Valerius Gaunt, who moved to Germany in 1894. Hadrian’s grandfather didn’t get along with his brother, Marvolo Gaunt, and decided to start a new life far away. Marvolo Gaunt remained in Britain and fathered two children, Merope and Morfin Gaunt. 

Neither the book nor Hadrian mentioned any Tom Riddle.

* * *

Before icy winds came to breathe the world anew, before silver-blue paths flourished from the cold, before snow covered the realm in perfect white, Hadrian Gaunt asked Tom to call him ‘Harry’.

A family nickname, apparently.

The name rolled off the tongue well. _Harry,_ tasted like cold lemonade on a hot, sunny day. Simple, yet refreshing. Tom rather liked it, despite the awkward manner the offer to use it had been delivered.

Awkwardness colored a lot of their interactions.

Harry still had his little group, and on occasion invited Tom to sit with them. As if Tom would ever accept it; he loathed those mindless fools and the concept of sharing with equally vigor. Tom didn’t want to settle for less than everything, because so far in his life family had provided him nothing. Dues needed to be collected and Tom would strip Harry of all that he is, all that he professes to be, rip off skin and expose the bone beneath, because that was what Tom was owed.

As days sprawled into weeks, and they remained locked in an odd middle ground between hostility and intimate. Harry would sporadically, ask how Tom’s day had been, acting almost caring, and reaching for his shoulder before jerking his hand away. As if repulsed by the thought of touching Tom.

Resentment always rear its ugly head when that happened, and Tom found ways to retaliate; Curse his property. Slip poison in his drinks. Smiling sweetly as a Bludger almost tore his face off.

Harry always gave him that frustrated look Tom so enjoyed. In those moment, Tom held all Harry’s attention, and there was something utterly pleasing about being watched with such a fierce stare. As if Harry was saying, _I know you_.

The fact that Harry’s gaze was cautious and guarded only proved that he is perceived the real Tom, that he acknowledged Tom as a dangerous force to reckoned with. Not Tom wanted Harry to fear him, well, not entirely at least. But, in a crowd, Harry looked for Tom first, and that was so alluring, even though wariness was the cause.

Tom had learned early on to grasp what was before him, if only to make sure someone else didn’t get it. Hatred itself is an eligible refuge when indifference is the other option. Tom was very adaptable, but even the life as an orphan had more consistency than Harry’s mood.

For sometimes, sometimes Harry made Tom hurt in a different way.

Like that day, Tom found himself wandering outside Hogwarts warm halls. The frigid air wicking away his body heat in an alarming speed. It's one of those days when no amount of clothes seemed enough, every layer felt thinner than they were. Tom’s fingers were chilled into clumsy numbness, cold seeped into his toes and spread painfully throughout his feet. Just as Tom’s lips started to spot a blueish hue, Harry appeared before him.

The green-eyed teen was slightly out of breath, cheeks bright pink, as though he had run a long distance to catch up with Tom. Harry’s dark eyebrows furrowed as he leaned closer, and Tom could see the concern in his eyes. Much to Tom’s surprise, Harry took of his perfectly knitted scarf and wrapped it twice around Tom’s neck. The wool felt soft and warming against Tom’s skin, and a surge of heat swept through his veins, filling him up with a delight he’d never felt before.

For a moment, Tom stared, captivated by the soft, melting snowflakes that sat heavy on Harry’s eyelashes.

The sky began to bleed as evening drew closer, and soon darkness would follow. Tom was often fascinated by the void, the black, the bare. He found it more illuminating than light, and maybe that was why honesty leaked out of his voice when he asked, “Do you hate me?”

(Why does that possibility scare me?)

A wave of resignation and fatigue swept through Harry’s expression, and his voice was hoarse when he answered, “No. I don’t hate _you,_ Tom Riddle.”

That night, Tom buried his face in the scarf, inhaling Harry’s scent greedily. And only under the cover of darkness did he dare to wonder; what did Harry hate then?

Before wild flowers rise from the earth, before disheveled grasses became lush, before air vibrated with bird song, Tom vowed to understand Hadrian Gaunt.

* * *

The Slytherins reaction to Tom being related to the Gaunt family had been somewhat predictable. Some was relieved they hadn’t been bested by a complete muggle-born. Some didn’t care. His roommates didn’t know how to treat him, which was entertaining in its own way, but no one immediately welcomed him with open arms.

In fact –

“You do know that Gaunt is only associating with you out of pity, right?”

Some didn’t change their approach at all.

Abraxas Malfoy was rarely less than arrogant. Brought up with a belief that he was superior to everyone else by virtue of his birth, he never owned up to his mistakes and instead claimed any piece of criticism to him was caused by envy. The blonde prat also felt entitled to everything that caught his fancy, especially what belonged to others.

Tom hated Abraxas, he really did. Hated his poise, hated his voice, hated his wide mouth that always had an amused tilt to it; every little trait, however small made Tom’s flesh crawl. However, what Tom loathed the most was how Harry allowed him touch him. 

Their shoulders brushed too often to be explained away as accidences. Those abnormally long and slender fingers lingered too long when they dared to touch Harry, implying a desire for more intimate physical contact that Tom would never allow.

“Jealousy doesn't become you, Malfoy,” Tom smirked, “Such a pity you choose to wear it so often.”

“As if a mudblood would ever inspire envy from me! “ Abraxas said with ridiculous amount of outrage.

“Fascinating. You really do have a limited vocabulary. “

His face turned red with anger, and Tom couldn’t help but to think it was improvement. Although, blood would probably look even better.

Abraxas proved Tom’s point by sneering, “Watch your mouth, mudblood.”

“Abraxas.” Short, calm, but the threat in Harry’s voice was unmistakable. The green-eyed teen gave the blonde a disapproving look and the effect was intriguing, Abraxas clenched his jaw and turned away. The Malfoy heir didn’t look frighten, just embarrassed. The urge to see the blonde humiliated more, to watch him break filled Tom with intense, predatory interest.

His Harry delivered wonderfully when he asked, “You dare calling the Gaunt line dirty?”

“N-no, I just mea-“ Abraxas stuttered.

“Hello Harry, “ Tom smirk widened when Harry converted his full attention to Tom, as if Abraxas was unimportant and easily dismissed. Tingling warmth fluttered in Tom’s stomach, he doesn’t remember ever being defended. Sure, it was against a simple verbal attack — nothing Tom couldn’t handle by himself, but still.

“I’ve been looking for you all day,” Harry said casually as they were moving down the hall, leaving Malfoy behind, “I managed dig up some information on our family here in Britain.”

More warmth poured inside at use of ‘our family’ and he closed his eyes for a moment, fighting to keep an even expression, and Tom asked, “What did you find?”

“An address,” Harry answered, “We can try visiting it in the winter solstice.”

The suggestion both pleased and confused Tom, so, tilting his head to the side, Tom asked, “You’re not going home?”

Profound sadness suddenly clouded Hadrian’s face, and he smiled a little artificially, “No, going home would be pointless.”

Why? Tom wanted to ask, but his mind choose that moment to focus on the fact that he knew very little about Harry. The older teen rarely mentioned his family in Germany and Tom had no idea what his relationship with them was like.

“Don’t worry about it, “Harry said ruffling Tom's dark curls. An unusually display of affections from him, so Tom let the subject drop – for the moment.

It was not really his fault when the topic became relevant again a few days later, as Tom crossed with intrigue the door to the Owlery where a package laid. It had arrived a little after dawn of that day, just before the great hall had been filled with students seeking breakfast. A brown paper packet, addressed with Tom’s name, but not with a sender, or whence it had come. The owl carrying was not familiar either – not that Tom kept track of the owls coming to Hogwarts and neither had anyone sent something to Tom before. He had sent it to the Owlery because he didn't want to open it with audience, but now solitude has arrived with the night, and Tom deemed it safe to investigate.

Inside it laid two leather bracelets and a note, which said;

_Dear Mr. Riddle, _

_I_ _ hope you and Harry will consider attending my winter solstice ball, I would greatly enjoy meeting you. The portkeys will automatically be activated 21. December at 5 pm, all you need to do is wear them and say: _

_‘For the greater good’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cocoa with cream and cinnamon go well with writing stories in rainy October days. So peaceful :D
> 
> Thank you very much for all the kudos and the kind comments, I really appreciate it. As always, I'm excited to hear what you guys think, so please leave a comment!


	4. Chapter 4

Across the snow-covered courtyard sparkled the enigmatic being called ‘Harry’. An adoring audience were huddling around him, much closer together than pureblood etiquette probably approved of. The impudent tangle of arms and legs, bags and books almost completely concealed Harry from the world – from Tom.

However,_ almost_ was not sufficient when Tom could never overlook Harry, not since meeting his eyes at the sorting. Harry’s presence had thrust itself into Tom skin, like a sharp hook that penetrated all the way down his bone. Every painful tug reeled him closer towards the older boy, and Tom resented it. Honestly, it would be somewhat tolerable if Harry had the decency to be equally troubled. Tom was still working on that.

Speaking of untroubled, despite the freezing cold, Harry was dressed lightly in a dark green robe. They were admittedly, very flattering, but couldn’t possibly offer any protection from the sharp wind. And yet, Tom supposed, Harry might be immune against cold. After all, the older boy shone like the sun itself; igniting the world with a lazy sort of brilliance.

Loud chatter and laughter filled the air, the atmosphere so joyful that Tom felt disgusted. The group consisted mostly slytherins, but a few ravenclaws and even one gryffindor could be spotted lingering in the periphery. One could fooled to believe they were engaging in unimportant prattle, if not for the occasional sly looks being exchanged between Malfoy and Avery. As if they knew something everyone around didn’t.

From where Tom was lurking, nothing obviously important seemed to be exchanged, only friendly teasing and jibs. While it was not improbable that Malfoy and Avery was putting up a show to seem more mysterious and important, occasional inflating one’s own ego was common practice among the Slythrin elite after all, Tom couldn’t shake the feeling that something more significant lurking beneath the surface. 

_‘For the greater good’ _

The infamous catch-phrase of Gellert Grindelwald. A name plastered boldly on the newspaper, but only uttered with either a quite uneasy or suppressed eagerness. Most religiously avoid acknowledging it, their eyes darting away from reports of violence and mounting corpses, choosing instead to focus on more ‘happier’ matter. Why worry about far away issues that has no effect on them? It would seem burying one’s head in the sand disturbed one’s geography skills, for Germany was hardly the other side of the world.

If Harry had ties to Gellert Grindelwald, the implications of him mingling with the children of Britain’s influence families….

Tom clenched the scarf wrapped around his neck, allowing the soft fabric to ground him. Such a lovely gift it turned out to be, always so impossible warm. Summer sun must have been infused into it, for even a month of winter hadn’t been enough to soak it out. Tom was developing a craving for warm things, wanted it permanently near him, squashed into a physical possession incapable of escaping him.

Moving out of the shadow cloaking him, Tom advanced towards his target. Something odd twisted in his chest and he hated Harry a little bit for every second the older boy didn’t notice him approaching. So demeaning, so insulting.

Eventually, the flickering gaze of the people facing Tom was enough turn Harry’s attention towards the inwardly seething third year. As always, Harry didn’t look particularly happy to see him, but no one could accuse him of looking indifferent either. No, those green-eyes focused on Tom with a singular intensity never directed on anyone else – Tom was certain of this because he had obsessively broken down every interaction Harry had with any person that wasn’t him.

A delightful duet of pleasure and approval purred inside Tom when Harry navigated his way through the human wall encircling him to meet Tom half-way. Good decision making on Harry’s part for once, moving away from the unimportant others and coming to Tom. Now, if Harry could get rid of the annoying blonde trailed after him, Tom would have no complaints. For a while at least.

“Well, this certainly explains why I felt the back of my neck prickling, “ Harry said, “what I’ve I done to make you glare so harshly?”

“Please, that just how his face looks Hadrian, “ Abraxas Malfoy smirked, one hand in his robe and the other clenching Harry’s shoulder.

“Better than your constipated look Malfoy,” Tom sneered.

“Brilliant comeback,” Abraxas mocked as if his own insult had been an example of sophisticated wit. Tom probably shouldn’t even have dignified it with a response, but the sight of Abraxas hands on what was _his_ vexed Tom.

_I should tear it off_, Tom thought.

Harry cleared his throat, thus interrupting the glaring match meeting Tom and the human slug. The green-eyed teen shot them both a reproachable look, though it was mostly directed at Abraxas.

“Abraxas, mind giving me and Tom a moment alone?” Harry asked in manner that sounded more like an order.

“That’s not necessary, “ Tom smiled sweetly as an idea blossomed, “this involves him too.”

Abraxas eyed Tom suspiciously, but Harry just looked confused. It was adorable really. For once Harry’s thoughts were painfully obvious; You want to talk to Abraxas? Really? The emerald eyes screamed. Well, now Harry understood a little of what Tom always though when he saw him together with Malfoy.

“I received your yule ball invitation today,” Tom began, becoming amused when he saw the interested disappear from Abraxas’ face.

“Hadrian made it clear he intends to spend the holiday with you,” the blonde teen said with a long-suffering sigh.

For a split second, Tom’s smile lost some of its predatory undertones, as he was genuinely delighted by the pieces of information. Unfortunately, Harry didn’t react much to Abraxas words, neither confirming or denying them.

“While we appreciate the invitation, I’m afraid other ball takes priority,” Tom said, enjoying the sheer disbelief on Malfoy’s face. The arrogant pureblood clearly hadn’t been expecting that answer. Tom barely had the time to salvage the look of fury before Harry once again claimed his attention.

“A word, Tom,” Harry gritted out before stalking towards the Hogwarts halls, confidant Tom would follow apparently.

A bit fascinated, for Harry was rarely openly angry, Tom did.

Reaching an empty classroom, Harry wiped out his wand; a smooth, unadorned shaft with a handle formed from two conjoined spheres. A wave of magic washed through the air, dark and rich, making Tom shiver.

A privacy ward most likely, to cast it wordlessly and wandless was beyond impressive. His Harry was powerful one.

“What other ball were you talking about?” Harry asked, though his grimace suggest he already knew the answer.

Tom squashed down the wave of uncertainty that assaulted him at Harry’s clear displeasure. The package had stayed hidden under Tom’s bed for about a week’s time before he finally decided what course to take. Truthfully, Tom’s first instinct had been to ignore it, for who would send a _portkey _to a 13-year-old boy they had never meet? Did the sender actually expect him to wear an enchanted object that would, in the best-case scenario, send him to an unknown location?

Sure, the invitation had been directed at Harry too, but that just made it even more suspicious. As if put there to set Tom at ease. The nerve! If someone was planning to lure him into a trap, they should at least do him the courtesy of not insulting his intelligent. Tom had to admire his own self-control, as he somehow resisted the temptation to aim a Fiendfyre curse at the invitation.

Nevertheless, it took a week for his anger to cool and curiosity to emerge. The invitation to the Malfoy gathering only pushed him to share the message with Harry lest he get forced to attend that ball. So, Tom deiced to spring it on Harry in a matter that would caught him as much off guard as it Tom.

Taunting Abraxas had been a nice bonus.

Harry snatched the note as soon as Tom pulled it out from his pocket. Something that sounded suspiciously much like cursing poured out of Harry’s mouth, and the older boy actually started to pace around the room, muscles tense like a caged animal.

“Harry,” Tom said to bring the attention back to him, not liking the far-off look on Harry’s face, “is this from a very Grindelwald-enthusiastic family member or something more…sinister?”

“What it is, is a very bad idea,” Harry ran a hand though his already messy hair, “why would _he_ invite you too?”

“Ashamed?” Tom asked blankly, feeling something inside him seethe, this was not the way this conversation was meant to go.

Harry starred, looking a little lost. Then comprehension lit his eyes, and Harry face twisted with deep sorrow, “No.”

Short, yet full of conviction. Harry reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Tom’s ear, the touch light and quick. A faint blush crept up Tom cheeks, and he fought the urge to do something stupidly sentimental, like tracing were Harry had touched his skin. 

The German wizard turned away from him and sighed, a resign expression settling on his face. Massaging his eyebrows, perhaps trying to alleviate a headache, Harry eventually said, “I suppose I’ll be going home after all. Afraid you’ll have to join, Tom.”

* * *

The world twisted, simultaneously growing larger and shrinking. Tom felt formless, liquefied and spilled everywhere, yet leaking and leaking. Had it not been for the warm hand holding him, particles resting upon his being to let him know he wasn’t alone, Tom might have fade out of existence. A horrifying thought, but it did not have a chance to linger for as soon as the sensation ended and they reached their destination. Only nauseous remained.

Tom’s stomach contracted violently, but fortunately he managed to push down the vomit. Harry rubbed circles on his back, which was surprisingly comforting. Tom arched his head back and took a deep breath.

“Are…are portkey travels always so unpleasant?” Tom swallowed his pride to ask.

“International ones can be hard to get used to,” Harry said, “especially if they are your first encounters with portkeys.”

The irritation at his own weakness pushed Tom to straighten his back. The sight that greeted him to his breath away. The mansion, no, the _castle_ stood there as if conjured from the storybook.

Perched on a hilltop above a gleaming River, a crystal white castle with sliver-grey roof loomed. Sharp towers enclosed it on all sides, finalizing the ice-like theme the castle was projecting. Like a winter phenomenon transformed into architecture artwork. Every stone was even and square, as if those who built were set on perfection.

“This is your home?” Tom shot Harry a bewildered look, wondering why the teen had neglected to mention he had a castle, or at least warn him beforehand so Tom could have avoided gaping like fool.

“It nor Gaunt property, it belongs to my mother’s family,” Harry frowned.

“And your mother is royalty?”

At this Harry laughed, though it lacked any true mirth, “Nobility at least…let’s get inside, okay?”

Generally approving of invading the beautiful castle, Tom agreed, though he didn’t stop barraging Harry with questions. The German wizard had the most horrible habit of withholding important information, and Tom really wanted to avoid more surprises. Arriving at the main arched gateway, they crossed a ramp astride what might once had been a deep, wide moat and passed under a second vast archway whose oaken doors swung open and closed ominously behind them with the clanging of heavy iron bars in spot-on mediaeval fashion.

“Harry!” A boisterous called out, and they – or Harry, were soon welcomed eagerly by somewhat chubby man. The man had dark-haired with brown eyes that gleamed with joy when they landed on Harry.

“Father,” Harry greeted unenthusiastically, before getting engulfed in a hug and spun around.

“My dear boy, I’m so glad our lord persuaded you to come home. While it is commendable that you wanted to stay completely focused on your mission, it also disrespectful to reject the unusual benevolence gifted to you by allo-“

“Father!” Harry detangled himself from the hug with a red face. It was hard to tell if it was from anger or being crushed into Mr. Gaunt’s chest. A mixture of exasperation and fondness colored the way Harry looked at his father. Placing a hand gently on Tom’s shoulder, Harry gave him an apoplectic look before focusing on Mr. Gaunt again, “Father, this is Tom.”

Mr. Gaunt slowly turned towards Tom, as if reluctant to pay attention to anyone else than his son, however a giant smile was stretched on his face, “Kin is always welcomed here! I can’t explain how _pleased_ I was when I heard about you.”

Though Mr. Gaunt’s tone was friendly, his eyes scanned Tom in cold manner best described as measuring. Tom plastered on a smile equally fake and reach out for a handshake. The bone-crushing grip he got in return was not exactly surprising, but it took considerable effort not to reveal how painful it felt.

Harry broke it off quickly and glared at his father.

“Har-“

“It been a long day father. We’ll be retiring now, “ Harry interrupted and more or less pushed Tom forward, not even slowing down when his father asked if they wanted supper first.

“Hikey, place our luggage in my room and add other bed,” Harry ordered, probably to a house elf.

All and all, that statement did a lot to lift Tom’s mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. I can't say I liked how this chapter turned out, but at this point I felt like it was just better to get it out. Thank you very much for all the kudos and comments (I particularly hoard comments like a dragon hoards gold). I really appreciate it!


	5. Chapter 5

Tom found it very appropriate that his first visit abroad was spent on a beautiful castle with servants tending to his every need. Castles had a special charm, perhaps because they remind Tom of various the fairy tales he consumed as a child. Stories of princesses and knights, duels at court, dragon slaying and riches beyond belief. Of course, Tom developed a much more sophisticated taste as he grew older, but Wool's Orphanage’s book collection was far from impressive and when the alternative was spending time with rest of the children, well, even stupid romance novels became preferable.

Anyway, the point was that Tom, much to Harry visible amusement, spent much of his time exploring the castle. Tom would often pause to admire and take in the details in the rooms, of furnishings and external façades. Rich tapestries of dark blue and gold hung on the walls, steeply twisting spiral staircases lead to towers and suits of sterling armor lined the main hallway.

The ostentatious display of wealth was not what truly impressed Tom, not when the whole building was pulsating with magic. Much like Hogwarts, the castle seemed aware of itself, of the history that echoed within the walls. There was just something _special_ about it, something otherworldly. Endless opportunities, the promise of victory and the belief that everything is possible. That was what magic felt like. Tom could only feel at home inside the physical manifestation those sensations. The fact that he could cast spells freely was also amazing. The Ministry of Magic didn't regulate the use of underage-magic in non-muggle areas and no professors were around to give detentions.

Hogwarts might have been the first and best home Tom had known, but this place was proving to be an impressive competitor, even with all its _peculiar_ aspects.

Sealed doors that no spells could open. The lingering smell of smoke in the vacant rooms of the south wing, which looked more newly-built compared to the rest of the castle. There was no Floo Network and you could not Apparate inside the castle.

Also, there was something very suspicious about the paintings. Granted, Tom could only compare them to those in Hogwarts and there was a chance that he was drawing wrong conclusions because of his limited knowledge. However, Tom did not find that possibility very likely. Too many things didn’t add up.

Firstly, there were multiply empty portraits frames scattered around the areas Tom had explored so far. Empty as in not having any people painted on them. Now, a less observant individual might just have shrugged and thought ‘maybe the Gaunts just really like scenery paintings’ or something stupid like that. Tom on the other hand, found it hard to believe anyone would have that many grey background paintings hanged up. Secondly, they were all conveniently positioned. Always by an entrance or somewhere in the room it could view everyone. Which brings Tom to his third point; he felt watched, not always, but too often.

Everyone knew portraits made perfect spies.

Corvinus Gaunt, Harry’s infuriating father, did spend a lot of time outside the castle doing God knows what, so it would make sense the he was the one orchestrating it, and yet…

“Master Tom, dinner is ready,” a small creature with bat-like ears and bulging blue eyes interrupted Tom’s thoughts.

Tome gave it a dismissing nod and bit back a smirk when it bowed deeply, face almost hitting the floor. The level of servility was utterly pleasing, Tom could quickly grow use to – crave it even.

_Some day._

Time to see Harry again.

* * *

“Entschuldig-….-aben schlechte Laune.. -ill nicht essen,” a squeaky voice spoke as Tom entered the dining hall. Unsurprisingly, it belonged to a house elf, a very dejected house elf by the looks of it. Its ears were drooped and it was looking down as though not daring to meet Harry’s eyes.

The older teen towered over the small creature, his voice sharp with bitterness when he said, “Verdammt, ich mache das nicht nochmal.”

“Aber!” The house elf protested while wringing its hands.

“Lassen ihr einfach da unten,” Harry said, with an air of finality.

The house-elf cried pathetically, snot streaked from its flaring nostrils down and its whole body trembled. A very ugly sight, though Harry looked more guilty than disgusted. Then the creature disappeared, perhaps to perform a gruesome task given to it by Harry? 

Harry let out a long, weary sigh. Looking so deliciously vulnerable. There something strangely alluring Harry’s hopeless expression. Tom wondered if he would cry, hoped so even. Harry would look beautiful with tears in his eyes – it would make them sparkle and his cheeks might glow red and those black curls would frame it so exquisitely. 

Goosebumps lined Tom’s skin at the image, shivers traveled down his spine and warmth followed. The acceleration of his heart-rate had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with _want_.

Tom must have made a sound or something, because Harry’s head snapped up, his attention finally returning to where it belonged. For a moment, they just stared into each other eyes in a magnetic kind of way, like neither could look away. Tom had begun to anticipate this moments, the ones Harry only shared with him. They were few and far between, but they were Tom’s.

Harry broke the silence by asking, “How long have you been standing there?”

Tom rearranged his smile to something less sharp, less toothy, less _genuine_. “Long enough to witness you bullying house-elf. I never pictured you as abusive master.”

“How do you picture me then?” Harry asked, more challenging than flirtatious.

And yet, Tom was tempted to answer ‘on your knees’. Tom was tempted to a lot of unadvisable things; wicked and exciting things. Displaying an impressive amount of self-control, Tom walked over to the table instead and sat down, beckoning Harry to join him. Reluctantly, the older boy did, but only after eying Tom suspiciously for a while.

The dinner suddenly appeared before them, just as it always did. Tom cradled the soup with both hands and let the warmth of the mug defrost his fingers. Wandering around the castle always made him so cold, despite the multiply warming charms cast all over the place. It was very odd, the rooms were never cold when Tom entered them, but the temperature always gradually dropped until he found himself freezing. Another mystery.

Raising the soup up, Tom drank in the aroma of meat, vegetables and spicy seasoning. Hot food was a luxury Tom didn’t often indulge in before Hogwarts, the orphanage offered cold canned mash more often than not.

“I pictured you as more patient,” Tom said as soon as Harry took a bit of the bread, “I picture you as someone who shows ridicules amount of tolerance to those around you, especially those beneath you.”

How else could one explain Harry’s friendship with Abraxas Malfoy?

Harry snorted in manner that should not have been attractive, loud and impolite. Putting his elbows on the table, Harry leaned towards Tom. “Patience is a virtue I never mastered, too impulsive I’m afraid, but you might have point about the ridicules amount of tolerance.”

The last part was said mockingly, though Tom could tell it wasn’t directed at him, not entirely at least. Still, Tom choose to be diplomatic instead of investigating that statement, “I’m not very patient either.”

“Heh, stating the obvious now? Twenty-four hours hadn’t even past before you _cursed_ my father.”

To be fair, Harry’s father all but asked for it. That aggravating man had been persistently occupying Harry’s attentions and treating Tom as stupid little kid. All condescending kindness and dismissive tones. Then as evening arrived, things took a turn for the worse. That horrible man actually _dared_ to order Tom to sleep, saying it was ‘passed his bed time’ and that ‘the grownups needed to talk’.

The curse, ‘_Diffusio sanguis_’, had not technically been aimed at Mr. Gaunt, but at his armchair. Every time the man sat on it, the particles of the chair would start to diffuse into his blood vessels. It was a slow-acting curse that gave its victim cruel and painful deaths, not that Tom had intended for it reach that level.

Somehow, probably the work of the spying portraits, Mr. Gaunt found out and instead of kicking out him out, like an reasonable person would, the giant man had pat Tom on the back and said, ‘You really are a descendent of Salazar Slytherin!’.

They had reached a truce of sort. Tom would not throw curses at him and Mr. Gaunt would treat as a guest should be treated; with courtesy and respect.

“I’m glad you two worked out a peace agreement,” Harry smiled fondly, “not that it has stopped you from declining his invitations to visit his workplace.”

No amount of assurance would convince Tom to follow that man to an unknown location, especially when Mr. Gaunt only voiced those invitations when Harry was nowhere to be seen. That man could not be trusted.

"I doubt your father plans to respect that agreement. I certainly haven’t,” Tom smirked, failing to hide his smugness at the memory of poisoning Mr. Gaunt’s breakfast earlier that day. Whatever ‘work’ he performed would definitively become more challenging once the air inside his lung tuned to acid. Not all of it, but enough to make him suffer.

That’s what he gets for spying on Tom.

Harry laughed, a bold, joyful sound that reminded Tom of late afternoons in the summer; golden and soft. A blush reddened Tom’s cheeks slowly, embarrassment and nervousness suddenly hit him. _Harry was beautiful_, even without tears and pain.

“That’s good, Tom. My father is not a bad man, but…a little distrust will probably do you a lot good when dealing with him,” Harry’s smile was pensive and a little sad.

Before Tom could give a response, Harry suddenly stood up and walked towards the exit. Without pausing, the green-eyed teen continued to talk, “Don’t wait up for me, I’ll be returning pretty late.”

“Doing what?” Tom demanded to know, not like the sudden turn the conversation had taken.

“Something I have avoided too long.”

* * *

It was 3 AM, the witching hour, and Harry had not yet returned. Tom had tried to get some sleep, but there was something eerie about the bedroom without Harry’s presence. Tom spent most of time restlessly tossing and turning. The room felt so unbearably freezing that even burying himself under both his and Harry’s quilts didn’t help.

Not to mention, Tom couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched, again. In the end, Tom eventually became more furious than scared and decided to crawl out of the bed to investigate. He would not be turned into a helpless child because of a little darkness! Whatever was causing this was the one who needed to be afraid.

“Hikey!” Tom called out the one house elf name he remembered.

No one came.

“House elves?”

Still nothing. Great. Could it be that Mr. Gaunt returned and was feeling vindictive after Tom poisoned him? The explanation was equally comforting and infuriating. Clenching his wand, Tom whispered "Lumos.”

The room light up and Tom – Tom saw a figure fleeing from a previously empty portrait frame. He knew it! Those bastards were spying on him. Furious, Tom ran after, leaving the sanctuary of his room and chasing what looked to be a middle-aged woman jumping from frame to frame.

The cold damp air wrapped around him like a heavy coat of chain mail as he descended the tight spiral staircase to the dungeons. The air was rather dusty, making Tom’s nose itch, and his feet were icy.

What was he doing?

This was beyond stupid, running of to what had to be a trap. The lack of sleep had clearly robbed him of common sense. He should turn back before –

“Leaving so soon?” A melodic voice asked.

Tom snapped his head towards a small woman standing before a stained-glass window frame with large cells of brightly red lilies. She stood very still, staring at him with heavy lidded eyes. Her cheekbones accentuated the skeletal look, emaciated and thin as they looked. Her eyes on the other, her eyes were a familiar stunning green.

“Mrs…Gaunt?” Tom deduced.

Her mouth twisted into a something that could barely pass as a smile. “I prefer Lady Peverell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, sleepy, so tired....but also satisfied! Thanks for all the comments and kudos <3 They feed the dark and twisted creature called my inspiration (who is more often than not active at night). Please let me know what you think, there is nothing that makes me more happy :D


	6. Chapter 6

Lady Peverell lead Tom to uncomfortably large room – large enough to fit dozens of children, though Tom doubt even one would be welcome. There something almost _hostile_ charging the air, as if the room itself was affronted Tom dared walk into it. Every step he took prompted the floor to groan beneath him, a strange human-like sound that only became shriller the farther inside he went. And yet, despite moving forward, the end of the room seemed to be curling further and further away into infinite dark.

At some point, Tom’s skin began shuddered and he could feel his mind starting to lose focus. Surely, his eyes were deceiving him? Surely, he was imaging the disembodied eyes peeping through the shadows, cruel and mocking. Fear had to be clouding his senses or maybe it was his sleepiness.

Taking a series of short, deep breaths, Tom fixated his eyes on Lady Peverell. Unlike him, her footsteps were silent, _too _silent. Her dress swayed gently as she walked ahead of him, blending in with the shadows so well that it was difficult to distinguish between her and the darkness. The blackness casted an ethereal shade over her, vivid red of the color of freshly spilled blood cascaded down her back in curls, and her pale skin shone like a beacon.

Stunning in the way only horrifying things could be. Oddly enough, Tom only felt repulsed. He would have accused her of being a ghost had he not felt the coldness of her skin moments earlier. 

_“I prefer Lady Peverell.” _

_“I see,” Tom started to back away, his instincts telling him to run, to get far away, “A pleasure to meet you, but I really should return to my ro -“_

_“Not yet, I wish to speak to foolish child,” she moved closer and reached out to brush Tom’s hair to the side with a bony finger, “It time someone warns you of the dangers you have stumbled into.” _

Tom had never thought of himself as a reckless person – in fact, he prided himself on his cautiousness and survival instinct, but apparently, he was not exempt from making rash decisions. Following strange ghost-like ladies into unknown territories takes a special brand of stupid, and had Tom not been so frightened, he would have killed her to rid himself of any witnesses to this humiliating moment.

Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. Tom was still holding his wand, poised and ready to strike, and she was walking ahead of him. He could cut her head off with well-aimed Diffindo. There was something _delightful_ about the idea of taking a life with such a harmless and light spell. They were taught the Severing Charm last year, listed as useful to ´cut cloth and thread´ in the second-year book of Spells. His classmates had either been innocently excited or arrogantly bored, simple-minded as they were. Tom, on the other hand, had _accidentally_ bump against a ravenclaw and somehow her spell had hit another student.

_Oh_, how the victim had screamed. The slash hadn’t been that deep, but the scarlet had stained her shaking hands so beautifully. The image burned into Tom’s mind along with what he had just done. Exhilaration had crawled within him and he had barely managed to keep it from his face. Cutting off a head would no doubt be even more incredible.

Would it be too optimistic to hope Harry will be as nonchalant about Tom murdering his mother as he had been about Tom cursing his father? The older boy had never mentioned her, so he couldn’t be that attached to her. Predictably, the thought of murder kept the anxiety at bay. Darkness became much less frightening when you were the one lurking inside it.

Lady Peverell suddenly stopped and it took Tom a moment to spot the dinner table in front of them. Regally, she took the seat at the head of the table, gesturing for him sit down. Hesitantly, Tom did, taking the seat opposite hers. Partly to put distance between them, but mostly because he refused to project submissiveness. Just because he was afraid didn’t mean he had to bare his throat.

Once again, the not-smile stretched across Lady Peverell’s face. She clapped briskly, twice, and dim light flickered to life. Tom glanced up at its source; an old wrought iron candelabra that hung above them with several black-wicked candles in it burnt to stumps. As weak as the light was, it allowed Tom to see more of the room. Golden wallpaper torn in numerous places, burn marks and broken mirrors with grimy frames. The light that shone off glass showed flecks of dirt and something dark red – which, coincidently, of course, also stained the floor.

It might once have been an impressive dining-room, before years of neglect – and _bloodshed_, had taken its toll. Over the years, ashes, bones and death had intermingled into a stench that both repulsed and fascinated Tom. There were no corpses in there, but one only needed to take one look at the unwashed discolorations on the corner of the room to know slaughter had happened here.

“Curb your enthusiasm child, or I’ll rip it out from you,” Lady Peverell said in the same softly way Harry did he was furious.

Apologizing would be the same as admitting his guilty, so Tom just stared at her blankly. At least her anger implied she hadn’t done the killing. After allowing the silence to stretch out a little longer, Tom asked, “Surely that’s not the warning you dragged me all the way here for?”

Hauntingly green eyes, slightly less vibrant than Harry’s, glared at him with an impressive amount of anger. And yet, her hands were neatly folded in front of her and her body was still as a statue. Cold in her tranquility.

Her voice was flat and emotionless when she spoke, “No. It not me you should fear. I’m not the one who seeks to mislead you, to ruin you.”

Tom frowned, “Someone is targeting me? For what reason?”

“No, not you particularly, but if given the chance, he will use you for all you are worth.”

That’s a bit cryptic. Honestly, what exactly was the point of dragging the warning out like this? It would be a lot faster if she just explained it in a more straightforward manner.

“Does he have name?” Tom asked because apparently, he must actively demand helpful information.

A somber look came over her face, and Tom suddenly felt like he was intruding in private moment. Her skin greyed in a way that made it look thicker, as if all the blood had been drained out by her grief. She looked more solid, less ghost-like, and Tom noticed the small silver scars covering her skin; thin and jagged.

“You must run, before he takes you,” she whispered, “it’s what he does. Takes, takes, takes, until I have nothing left. My poor, poor little boy.”

She stood up and started pacing the room, mumbling words under her breath. The transition from emotionless composure to unhinged hysteria transpired so quick Tom felt whiplashed. Her distress was palpable, she looked small and fragile. Some people may have felt pity, but disgust was the only thing Tom could muster up. Insane woman. He should never had wasted his time on her.

Slowly, Tom rose, hoping to use her moment of distraction to escape. Her eyes snapped towards him, wide and pleading. Inhumanly fast, for that was the only way to describe it, she made her way to him.

Tom raised his wand – to threat, to give _her_ warning, but a voice inside him whispered ‘screw it’ and a curse shot out. A mild one, mind you, only violently pushing her back. She didn’t even get that hurt by the looks of it, as she quickly jumped back to her feet.

“Insolent child! You dare attack me,” she hissed, “Me, who tries to protect you when everyone else lead you on like a lamb to slaughter?”

Tom edged away, “You are not acting someone who is trying to protect me, maybe tone down the creepiness?”

In hindsight, provoking the crazy woman was unwise, and to Tom credit,realized that before she launched her own curse at him. He barely dodged it and did not appreciate how the area he had just been standing on melted.

“No, no, no,” Lady Peverell cried, digging her nails into her scalp till she drew blood; a horrifying sight. “Its he who hurts children, not me!”

Tom ran to the door, ran and ran, but could not reach it. Bloody hell. This was a disaster, he need to escape, get far from away from this lunatic. But the hostile room did not allow him to escape. He could hear footsteps behind him, closing in, and he deeply regretted not cutting her head off when he had the chance. Desperately, Tom tried to think of something that could save him, anything, then an idea hit him.

“Harry…Harry would be very displeased if you hurt me,” Tom twisted around to face her, his wand subtly aimed at her, hoping the mentioned of her son would distract her long enough for him to end this encounter.

She paused, her expression switched back to cold calm, softly she asked, “Harry?”

“ Your son?” Tom stalled, readying to test out the infamous unforgivable curse. 

“My son is dead,” Lady Peverell sighed, “Harry died a long, long time ago.”

Even the knowledge of her insanity didn’t soften the sting of those words. They were just **that** horrible. Especially when Harry wasn’t there to reassure Tom that he was okay. Apprehension and unease curled inside his stomach, twisting and piercing him with dread.

“Harry is not dead, “ Tom spat out, because the words burned his tongue and would consume him if he didn’t let them out.

Lady Peverell looked at Tom with pity, “I’m afraid he is, you see, death is the reason that _man _treasures him.”

Loathing flooded from her lips when she mentioned that man, so Tom had to ask, “Which man?”

Green eyes deliberately flickered to one of the broken mirrors on the wall, which obediently moved closer at its mistress call, approaching ominously. Tom shivered, feet rooted to the floor, a part of him wanted to run. However, there was something within him that refused to flee. An intuitive sense that somehow, this was something he wanted – no, needed to know.

The glass Tom stared into was encircled by a frame of threadlike strands of silver, interlaced together in a web-like arrangement. For a moment, all it showed him was the reflection of a dark-haired youth with hungry eyes and bitter lines etched all over his face. A handsome face concealing the rot beneath.

Suddenly, the image distorted, like ripples on water. The scenery changed and Tom was no longer the focus. A high-ceilinged room appeared, decorated with gold and silver adornments. Beautiful objects created from indigenous turquoise, marble, and other stones filled the space. At its center stood an exquisite chair carved of fine oak, a throne fit for a king. The man lounging upon it certainly seemed to agree, if the arrogant smirk was any indication.

There was another person in the room, someone who was kneeling before arrogant man, their head bowed, messy black hair obscuring their face. Tom had a sinking feeling, looking at that bowed form. Recognizing warred with denial. For Tom knew that figure, knew those unruly curls and the realization hurt in a way he couldn’t explain.

The bowed form held out a fluid-like silky, silvery material. One of his hands seemed to disappear beneath it, as if erased from existence.

The man rose from his throne, a pleased smile danced on his lips and his eyes held a glint of affection. His gait was ethereal, his face showing the imperiousness of generations of sovereigns; head held up as though his golden curls were a jewel-encrusted crown.

Pride. Precision. Power.

Harry, Tom’s Harry, inclined his face towards the man as a flower does towards the sun. The man touched Harry lightly under the chin with a solitary finger, gazing down at him with so much tenderness Tom felt nauseated.

Harry didn’t pull away, and Tom hated him a little for it. But it was quickly overshadowed by the pure loathing that blonde bastard inspired. How_ dared_ he touch Harry like that, how dared he make Harry look at him like that. Never had the urge to hurt burned Tom so sharply. He – he need to hear bones crack before the rage drove him mad. Preferably that bastard, but he could settle with craving his name into Harry’s skin, remind him who he belongs to.

A cold laughter interrupted Tom thoughts, Lady Peverell’s face was twisted with loathing that might even surpass Tom’s. Her voice was hoarse with hatred when she said, “That’s Gellert Grindelwald.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'll take this opportunity to remind people that Tom Riddle is not a good person, I know *surprised pikachu face*

* * *

The light was dim, but Tom was accustomed to working in the dark; preferred, really. There were so many things better left unspoken and unseen. However, this time Tom strongly suspected that the dark was only giving him an _illusion_ of privacy. Silence deceived all the time. It screamed that nothing important was happening, that nothing bad was happening, so don't worry. Look away.

But someone was look at him – at his work.

_Absolutely horrified_, Tom hoped, _and solemnly regretting their choice._

Risking a glance at the not so empty portrait frame at center of the room, Tom couldn't help but to remark; “Spying on your guest is a little rude, don’t you agree?”

Unsurprisingly, silence was all he received. So, Tom reined in his irritation and returned his focus to the task at hand. It had already taking longer than expected, his fingers moved clumsily, his dexterities clearly dulled by time. Hogwarts didn’t exactly encourage this kind of stuff, so Tom really couldn’t be blamed for having lost some of his proficiency. At least, he could feel it getting easier as he persistent in his efforts. The slicing, the pull of the needle, the tension in the thread, all so familiar.

He remembered being six years old, sitting in a huddle at the bottom of the stairs, his thin sweater not enough to shield him from the cold. ’Tom,’ Mrs Cole glared at him as if he was the one at fault, ‘we can’t afford replacing everything you children break, you’ll just have to make do.’

No one would repair his torn jacket (_ruined by others_) and winter was coming. So, Tom learned how to stitch. He didn’t do a good job at first; the stitches were too thick and uneven so the cloth ended up looking bumpy and messy. Fortunately, his skills had improved greatly by the time he experimented on a _different_ fabric.

_Blood pouring out under his arms, fingertips against a frantic pulse, the weight of the flesh in his palm. Focus, be precise. Clean cuts are easier to stitch back together again._

Involuntarily, Tom’s mouth twitched with dark amusement, but he didn't smile. It would look too discriminating. Well, not that there was much point in faking innocence in this case, but old habit died hard. Also, it wouldn’t do to offend his hostess delicate sensibilities too much.

The stench of decay festered in the air, foul enough that it would have beckoned flies had it been summer. Tom tilted his head back, inspecting his handwork. Eyes sewed shut. Wings stretched out to either side and nailed to the wood. Lovely white feathers parted smoothly in thin deep lines, and the silk-like red flesh was fanned open, like printed pages. The bone beneath was white with a subtle hue of gold, resembling frozen tree branches bathed by sunlight; delicately beautiful.

Tom couldn’t help but to marvel at how the red dye ran, clinging to his fingers and dripping to the floor. Such a horrifying beautiful artwork required a certain… _cruelty_, one Tom wouldn’t mind practicing on larger targets. 

His lips twitched again.

The burning feeling of being watched intensified. A slight tingle filled Tom’s hands as he held the offering – the _solution_, and he could feel the last of his nervousness pass into nothingness. This was dark, very dark magic and some people would hesitate, blabbering that it was wrong (evil), vile, vile and so terrible, but –

(Tom had raced back to his room – _their_ room. He had been so furious/frightened/wretched to find it empty. He looked, looked and looked. Screaming out a name into the silence. How **dared** he?)

– there was no good and evil, there was only power and those too weak to seek it. Tom Riddle was not weak.

_Non omnis moriar_

As Tom began to pull out the two leather bracelets that started this mess (only six hours till they activated), the sound of soft steps filled the air. The lady of the castle moved with incredible grace, seeming to float rather than walk. Her green eyes betrayed nothing of the thoughts within as they settled on him.

Tom smirked, high on blood and power, “Should I offer our highly-estimated Lord a slice of this delicacy after I have used it for my purposes, or would it be poor taste?”

Her face expression didn’t change, but she still managed to perfectly convey that she was unimpressed. “The ball will be crawling with his followers,” she unnecessarily explained, “it will be difficult get that where it needs to be.”

“I know.”

She peered into his face with those sharp, green eyes so terrible alike Harry’s that Tom felt his breathing stop for just a moment. Her expression softened slightly and she placed her hand on his cheek in a motherly sort of gesture, “You are clever little thing, child. That _man _hoards dark and ambitious individuals. Do not be taken.”

_Be careful_, she didn’t need to speak it out loud, Tom heard it clearly. Loathed it even more.

A faint heartbeat flickered back and forth into existence.

* * *

“_Tom._”

Inside the darkness conjured by the mind, a certain weightlessness slithered around, seeking a place to take root. The lines, every line, blurred. One could easily be swept away by the lack of limitations – the distinctive freedom imagination offered, and relish in a make-belief reality.

Tom’s fantasies often brimmed with violence and carnage, and he had always preferred making them a reality. Bending the world outside his mind was trickier, but not impossible for one with his abilities.

“Tom,” the voice repeated, a tad impatient this time.

As tempting as it would be to ignore him again – to punish and to hear him speak his name again – Tom instead decided to acknowledge his newly arrived Harry. The young slytherin took his time turning around, something dark splashed behind his lips as his anticipation rose.

The stunned silence that greeted him was gratifying.

The thirteen- soon- fourteen years old boy was not heedless of the sight he presented. Hair swept back to accent his aristocratic features and fine bones. Dressed in a navy-blue robe with gold striped satin woven along the hem and cuffs and cream linen tunic beneath. Tom was young and not fully grown, but he was (outwardly) beautiful and tonight his attire complimented his smooth complexation and tall form.

The way Harry stared at Tom with burning eyes, so dazed and startled, completely unable to look away, was _everything_. Tom’s mouth curved in a practiced smile, showing off the perfection of his teeth and lips, hiding the rot beneath. And watching at Harry green eyes drinking him in, the smile almost felt genuine too.

“Back just in time, “ Tom said, “I was starting to wonder if I would have to attended the ball alone.”

“Eh, I-I,” Harry’s cheeks flushed prettily, and his eyes were still fixated on Tom, “Sorry, I lost track of time? You look – wow, I mean, sorry?”

Tom smile turned sharp at edges as he graciously lied, “You’re forgiven.”

The German wizard blinked, but was still too much in a daze to pick up the dark undertone of Tom’s words. Naturally, Tom to the opportunity to look at Harry. He was, of course, devastatingly handsome, dressed all in black, except for his crisp, green shirt. A little too muggle-like, if you asked Tom, which was interesting consider whose ball they were attending.

“Thank you?” Harry said endearingly confused, but all good thing comes to an end. The older teen shook his head slightly and eyed Tom suspiciously. “Where…where did you even get that outfit?”

Tom tilted his head to the side and said, “The house elves prepared them to me. Why, did you have another arranged for me? “

Doubtful, seeing as Harry hadn’t even breathed the words ‘ball’ or ‘Grindelwald’ around Tom since they came here. One could almost be fooled into believing Harry was hoping Tom would just forget the whole thing.

Harry’s expression soured for a moment before saying with an accusing tone, “I doubt I could find one that would suit you as _perfectly_ as that one.” 

“Well, fashion is not your strongest suit, so that doesn’t really surprise me,” Tom smirked, “but I didn’t expect you to be this bad at giving compliments. A simple ‘you look godly Tom’ would have been sufficient.”

“You look godly Tom,” Harry said dryly.

Even the haughty expression Tom donned was not enough to hide his pleasure at Harry words, despite the tone they were delivered Tom felt heat poured through his body. _Godly Tom. _He liked the sound of that from Harry’s lips. One day, he’ll make the older boy say it reverently.

“Thank you, “ Tom’s smile bared sharp teeth, “you look good too.”

Harry snorted, but something affectionate softened his eyes. He looked so lovely that Tom wanted nothing more than to ruin him. If Tom crawled inside his skin, bury himself so deep that leaving would tear Harry apart, would that be enough? How long would it take before Tom ripped himself way just to _see_ Harry bleed from the separation (for how else could he believe it?). Tom was almost certain he would be able to stitch the pieces together again.

“So, besides acquiring mysterious robes, what exactly have you been up to all day?” Harry asked.

“Same as usual,” Tom said, and then felt a burning sensation around his wrist, one glance at clock showed that the time was nearing 5 pm. “As much as I wish to ask you the same question, it seems like time almost is up.”

Reaching down to his pocket, Tom fished out the other bracelet and threw it to Harry. The older boy effortlessly caught it, his eyes never leaving Tom and his displeasure was clear to see. And yet, Harry put the bracelet on immediately.

“The ball doesn’t really start before midnight,” Harry mumbled.

“Oh?” Tom said genuinely surprised.

Frustration, resentment, worry – Tom felt almost dizzy tracing the ripples of emotions on Harry’s face. So terrible infuriating, his Harry, always confusing Tom. In the end, resigned irritation settled on Harry’s face. Raking a hand through his messy hair, Harry sighed. “but he wants us early.”

Yet Harry made no moves, the bracelet continued to burn Tom’s wrist. 

“Shall we then?” Tom asked.

Silence, then Harry said hesitantly, “Perhaps we should postpone this.”

Tom smiled sweetly, “Don’t be ridicules. We are meeting Gellert Grindelwald himself, right? Keeping him waiting would be rude.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, watching Tom carefully, as if trying to pry out his thoughts. “Yes…and behaving rudely would be a very, very poor idea. You wouldn’t dare do something…stupid, would you Tom?”

Tom stood there amid the haunted walls, blood underneath his fingernails, a broken corpse hidden inside his robes, and with an expression of injured innocence declared, 'Me? Do something stupid?'

Harry paused, raising one eyebrow and _looked_ at Tom. It was really insulting. After making a note to work on his innocent expression, Tom grabbed Harry’s hand, digging his fingernails into skin.

“For the greater good,” Tom said, the words tasting oddly in his mouth, and the world twisted upside-down.

* * *

A red moon faintly arced in the celling, weaving in and out of dark clouds, pirouetting in silence. Beneath it a king, who reign over war and death, sat regally upon a chair. Pastel skin like marble, amber hair and eyes bright like the sky; Gellert Grindelwald _burned_ so brightly that Tom spotted him before his feet fully landed on the ground. As space righted itself to accommodate the sudden arrival of two new individuals, Grindelwald remained a fixated point, the center of vision.

Tom shivered and was subjected to a wave of dizziness, only Harry’s hand kept him steady, and Tom felt some of his resentment fade because of it.

Grindelwald raised his glass and said with a rich, mellifluous voice, “_Harry_, genau pünktlich. Welch Wunder!”

The dark lord was not alone, two men sat impassively around him at the dark mahogany table, observing the newly arrived guest with barely concealed irritation. The lady at the Dark Lords right, on the other hand, beamed with open joy – and it was not the only thing differentiating her from the others.

_Horns_.

Two horns rose from her head, gleaming with sharpness, and her eyes had an inhuman red hue. _Fauness_? Tom glanced down at her feet, curious if he would see hooves, but the skirt of her gown hid her legs from his view. She quickly made her way to them, throwing her arms around Harry.

“Hallo Liebes, wie geht es dir?” she asked chirpily, not giving Harry a chance to reply before turning her eyes to Tom, “Wer ist dein Freund?”

One of the man, the blonde, gave a sniff of disapproval, “Sein Cousin, einmal aufpassen, bitte Octavia.”

Harry laughed, the tension easing from his shoulder, and he shot an apologetic smile to Tom. “Yes, this is my cousin Tom, from the British branch of the Gaunt family. So, would you guys mind having the conversations on English?”

“Of course not,” Octavia, said with a thick accent. Tucking a lock of her dark chin-length hair behind her ear, Octavia smiled warmly, “Gaunt you say?”

The blonde man spoke again, “_Obviously_, it not like the Peverell has anymore members to speak of-“

“_Emst_,” Octaiva barked sharply, glaring at him with such a ferocity it was almost surprisingly the man didn’t incinerate.

Tom did not miss how rage ripped through Harry’s face at the man’s comment, nor did he miss how Grindelwald subtly shifted, dark displeasure pulsated through the air. The man, Emst, respectfully dipped his head, silently apologizing – to Grindelwald, not to her (or Harry). 

The atmosphere turned heavy, almost enough to suffocate and crush. No one said anything, no one moved and then – then Grindelwald _smiled_. It was cruel and benevolent as the heat of the sun itself, scorching and life-giving in equal turns. Tom had no idea why it put everyone at ease, but the tension disappeared as if never existed.

Grindelwald’s gaze fell upon Tom, the weight of the ritualistic handwork felt heaver with each second under his scrutiny, yet Tom kept his cool. After what felt like an eternity, Grindelwald spoke, “Tom Riddle, I’ve been _anxious_ to meet you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom, twirling around in front of the mirror, "This outfit is not all I'm killing tonight."
> 
> Wow, time sure flies, I can't believe I haven't updated this fic since November. I hope this chapter is worth the wait :D Reviews fuel me and pushes me to write, so please let me know your thoughts! I looooooooove hearing your thoughts. What do you thin about Grindelwald? Harry? Tom?


	8. Chapter 8

The truth was, despite what Mrs. Cole might protest, Tom Riddle usually avoided tormenting his fellow orphans when he could. This was not because of an altruistic inclination or silly concepts like mercy or forgiveness, but rather an act of self-preservation. When you are outnumbered and without allies, you would have to tread softly lest you take on more than you can handle. Cruelty is a tool best used sparingly. It never a good idea to indulge in it to the point that people hated you more than they feared you.

Before Tom learned this lesson, he had wreaked havoc and pain upon the orphanage in a fashion that could be compared to biblical plagues (at least one would think so by the way Mrs. Cole told it). For a while, things had been good – no, things had been _glorious_. Tom had commanded attention from his throne on the lunch-room, looking imperiously down at other children and devising new forms of torment for his own entertainment.

Unfortunately, his reign of terror quickly came to an end when the adults became involved – caretakers, church members and almost the police too. But considering how close the older children had been to murder him to end their misery, that might have been a blessing.

Standing in front of Grindelwald, hearing the words ‘_Tom Riddle, I’ve been anxious to meet you’_, thrusted forwarded those memories with a vigor that almost made Tom stumble on his way to the table. He had to bit the inside of check to prevent his expression from twisting – not wishing to reveal the odd mixture of rage and fear that assaulted him. Briefly, he wondered if that was how his victims had felt back then; the intense urge to both cower and strike. From the corner of his eyes he could see Harry following, but the sound of his footsteps was drowned out by the loud beating of Tom’s heart.

Golden eyes remained locked on him until he took a seat.

With a flicker of one elegant hand, Grindelwald wordlessly dismissed the three adults in the room. All bowed their heads reverently, and said; “Mein Herr.”

Had Tom not been so uneasy, he might have spared a moment to be fascinated by the way adoration lit up their faces as Grindelwald basically kicked them out of the room. You would think he had offered them the greatest honor by the way they hastened to _obey_.

The door shut with a deep, sonorous thud as Grindelwald’s followers left, leaving Tom and Harry alone with the Dark Lord. Despite having plenty of newly vacated chairs to pick between, Harry opted to hover behind Tom, causally resting one elbow over the chair top rail. If Tom leaned his head back just a little bit, they would touch, so obviously, he did.

Unlike the tense Hogwarts duo, Gellert Grindelwald exuded calm, smiling gaily and benevolently he asked, “How are you faring in the exquisite Peverell castle? It’s been quite some time since my last visit.”

Harry snorted derisively.

“I’ve had a lovely time there,” Tom eventually said after realizing that yes, Harry’s disrespect would indeed go unacknowledged, “The area is beautiful and Harry’s parents have been nothing but kind.” Well, they have occasionally been kind, Tom supposed, more often than him at least. 

Grindelwald eyes flickered upwards – to Harry, after Tom finished speaking. The silence that followed disclosed no hints of the other was thinking, so Tom tilted his head to the side just in time to catch a frown drifting past Harry’s handsome face. Like ripples in water, every muscle in Harry’s body tensed even as the older teen managed to school his face into an emotionless expression.

Something resembling amusement was tugging at the Dark Lord’s lips when Tom finally managed to tear his gaze from Harry. “Have _they_? How very curious. You’ll have to tell me all about _her_ reception on another occasion, I’m afraid we’re pressed on time and there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about for quite some time now.”

Tom blinked, trying (failing) to hide his confusion, while he hadn’t planned on sharing any details of his interactions with Lady Peverell, he never expected such an odd reaction by merely implying he met her. Not to mention, why on earth would Grindelwald wish to talk to Tom about…well, anything at all? Also ‘quite some time’?

“Oh?” Tom said, more nervous, more breathless, than he’d intended.

“Do you believe in prophecies?” Grindelwald’s asked softly, a curious smoky edge clung to vowels of the last word, making his accent more pronounced than ever, “In destiny, fate and the inevitable?”

“…We’re taught Divination in Hogwarts.“

“Crystal-gazing and pretending to read tea leaves, I presume. I expect straightforward answers to my questions and I don't like repeating myself, Tom.”

Tom clenched and unclenched his fists under the table until they trembled, barely controlling his urge reach for his wand. It felt as though there was a noose closing in around his neck, and he had to weigh his next words carefully lest they plunged him to his demise. At last, he managed, “I…I suppose I do to _some_ degree, Divination is an ancient art, but since I’ve never really seen a genuine example of true Divination, I harbor doubts too.”

“Sensible, ‘I'll believe it when I see it’, a _muggle_ idiom, is it not?” Grindelwald’s tone was coldly mocking, casting a gimlet-eyed glance towards Harry, “Wonders do not cease to exist because you haven’t discovered them yet. Harry is a good example of that.”

“Really? I distinctly remember your reaction to me being quite the opposite of wonderful,” Harry said, his tone mild yet slightly exasperated. He leaned forward, black locks brushing Tom’s cheeks as Harry stared intently at Grindelwald.

The Dark Lord smiled, a hint of teeth flashing,” You are an acquired taste, _Mortifer_.”

Tom narrowed his eyes, disliking their familiarity and the possessive tone Grindelwald used when speaking Harry’s name even more than he did the muggle insult. Tom was no stranger to envy - the malicious, ravenous kind that poisoned every thought and put him in violent and cruel mood. While Tom liked to think his self-control had improved vastly after years with exposure to privileged idiots (sharing room with rich, pureblood bigots has been an arduous exercise in patience Tom really could’ve lived without), occasional bust of envy would strike him from time to time.

And yet, the feeling felt almost odd and unfamiliar when it hit him this time. It whirled inside him with a new kind of intensity and urgency, spreading and consuming every bit of him, until every thought of his was tainted with hungry and painful need to possess – to own.

Is it strange, to desperately wish to call someone your own, when no one has ever belonged to you?

After drawing in a sharp breath, Tom grabbed their attention by reaching out and grasping onto Harry’s sleeve. The green-eyed teen glanced down curious. Tom allowed himself a moment to appreciate the soft fabric against his curled fingers, before glaring at Grindelwald challenging, “If there is such a thing as fate, me and Harry must be bonded by it, that much I certain of.” Because Tom _needed_ that to be true.

Amber eyes gleamed almost wickedly at Tom proclamation, “I couldn't agree with you more,” rising, Grindelwald poured himself wine, blood-red liquor shimmering beneath the moonlight. The reflecting light from the glass danced on the blonde’s face as he raised it, “which brings me to my point; war looms in Harry’s future, as do death, _always_. Are you capable of craving a place for yourself in that chaos?”

Before Tom could craft a response or properly process all that had been said and implied, Harry growled, “He won’t bloody need to! This war hardly needs child soldiers.”

“I’m not a child,” Tom protested, childishly.

Harry didn’t dignify it with a response, glaring at Grindelwald with a ferocity Tom definitively approved of. 

“You’re the one who all but invited him to one or do you intend to cut him out of your life?”

* * *

Harry pulled Tom into the ballroom, ignoring the curious glances from the guest noticing exactly where they entered from. The older teen’s muscles were coiled and tense, ready for battle. Tom was half-terrified and half-infuriated. That had been a humiliating affair, so humiliating that Tom burned with the intense need to hurt something. He settled with digging his nails into Harry’s flesh, almost hard enough to draw blood. Harry didn’t react. Such a strong resistance to pain.

Abruptly, Harry stopped, his voice was twitchy when he asked, “Do you want dance?”

Tom blinked, then flushed, because what other reaction could one have to be asked to dance? Surely Harry was joking. Scowling, Tom said, “Of course not. What about this situation makes you think I want to dance?”

Harry flashed him a smile, letting go of his hand and leaned his torso forward into a bow. His right hand raised, palm outward, an invitation and a challenge. Green-eyes looked up, sparkling mischievously at him. “It’s a lovely evening and you look godly. It would be a shame not to?”

Tom felt a flare of alarm, dull and muted by the sensation that pooled in his belly when looked at Harry. Tom drank in the compliment, basked in it, even knowing that Harry was only saying this – asking for this, to distract himself from what happened.

_Do you intend to cut him out of your life?_

“I suppose it would,” Tom answered without thinking, craving closeness.

Slow music twirled like thread around them and the room was packed with swirling pairs in front of the Orchestra and beneath the crystal chandeliers. And yet, everything fade when Harry grabbed one of Tom's hands to intertwine their fingers together and place the other one on Harry' shoulder. A soft, big hand slides down Tom’s waist, sending a trail of heat with it.

_I can’t even dance_, Tom remembered as his body was suddenly pulled and almost completely flushed against Harry's muscular build. It seemed too late to protest now, not that Tom was confident he could form a comprehensible protest. His ears were ringing with a dull, sloshing thud of blood and adrenaline and panic and nerves, he’s anxious, he’s apprehensive, he’s uncertain, he’s so, so eager—

Harry started to move and Tom hastened to follow, watching Harry’s feet and trying to copy his steps, but it didn’t long before he accidently stepped on Harry’s feet. Mortified, he glanced up to gauge Harry’s reaction, but to his surprise the older teen only chuckled. Warmth passed through his gaze, and the skin around his eyes softened as he took in Tom’s surprised expression.

“Its brave of you to agree to something you are unfamiliar with, positively Gryffindor of y- Ow!“

There was nothing accidental with the pain in Harry’s feet this time.

“You were saying?” Tom smirked.

“…that you’re evil,” Harry said, and twirled him around, pulling him closer as he did.

Tom didn’t dare voice his thoughts on that, because they were foul, twisting his in discord. He didn’t dare say that wished to pour onto him, to burrow inside his bone – to tear down and breach his comfort so Tom could have _his_.

Harry could never abandon him, cut him out of his life, if he was too broken to leave. So why did that option make Tom so uneasy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys are staying safe in this whole corona mess. Thank you very much for the support so far :D

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really enjoying starting new stories these days! Well, I hope this one sounds interesting, the idea has been in me head for years, but today was the only time I thought about writing in down.
> 
> Reviews fuel me and pushes me to write, so please let me know your thoughts! I very curious if anyone else find this idea interesting.


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